Mistakes

 

I stand at Joe’s front door. It’s a ground-level flat in the western suburbs of Adelaide. A quiet working-class area comprising small brick homes, low-rise apartment-blocks and light industry. I’ve come to buy a text book he’s advertised on a noticeboard at Uni. Footsteps herald his arrival and I remind myself of the book title and price.

The door opens and a gaunt dishevelled figure looks down at me. He’s not what I expect. Speaking on the phone a few days earlier, I’d imagined a lively young academic with an air of sophistication. After all, he’s selling a Fourth Year Medical book: Grey’s Anatomy. But the reality is jolting: a surly-looking man, early 40’s, receding dark hair, grubby denim jeans under a worn black windcheater, glaring at me silently, unsmiling, blue eyes piercing.

‘I’m Amy,’ I say, forcing a smile. ‘We spoke on the phone. I’m here to buy the book.’

His expression softens a little, he steps back and, opening the door widely, he gestures for me to enter. ‘Right,’ his voice is deep and gravelly - different from how I remembered on the phone. ‘Come in, then.’

Again, I’m confused. I thought I’d stay here on the porch and I’d just pay outside. Why would I need to go into his flat? But ... I don’t want to be rude and I desperately need the book … exams are coming and I’ve got next to no money - while the price he’s asking is a steal. Almost too good to be true. Seriously.

So, I step towards the entrance and peer into the gloom, my eyes are yet to adjust to the dark: The flat is a mess and a horrible stench of rubbish and mouldy furniture hits me. As I move through the doorway, I hear a voice in my head saying: This isn’t right. Something’s off. Leave! Impatiently, I silence the voice.

‘I’ll get the book,’ he says, shutting the front-door behind me before disappearing through another door. As I wait, I can hear noises – scraping sounds, like furniture being moved around - from other rooms. I realise the man is not alone. Someone else, maybe more than one, is here with him. Forget the book, the voice in my head insists. It’s not worth it. I realise maybe it isn’t worth it – it’s too weird - and I decide to leave.

Turning, I move towards the front door but the handle is like nothing I’ve seen before. It appears to be hand-made. I have no idea how to open it ... and realise maybe it’s been locked. Before I can move, footsteps march briskly along wooden floorboards towards me, and two men enter the room.

One is the man I met at the door, but the other is new. He’s slightly shorter than the first, mid-30’s, blonde, smiling and better dressed than his companion. He reaches into his pocket and, as he watches me intently he struggles to extract something. I step back, the hair on my neck bristles and my heart pounds deafeningly in my ears. I feel faint … and I can’t think. My thoughts are confused, scattered. It’s like I’m an observer – outside my body - watching events unfold from a distance.

The shorter man struggles with the object for a few moments longer then, with a violent tug, he yanks out a small, black gadget which he points, with an extended arm, towards me.

Unable to catch my breath, jaw gaping, my gaze shifts down to the dark item in his hand: it’s black, shiny, rectangular, the size of a novel? I’m confused … It is a novel. What?! He gestures for me to take it from him, and when I do I read the title: Grey Anatomy: winter poems.

‘You’re here for this?’ the voice is the one from the phone. ‘They’re my own poems. I’ve sold a few copies to the Medical students. No idea why they like them so much. But that’s why I’ve been advertising up at the Medical School.’

Darn! No wonder Med students buy them ... they think it’s the cheapest copy of Grey’s Anatomy they’ve ever seen! I look around again at the shabby flat – and it makes sense: he’s a poet. He suffers for his art. His face is so full of pride and happiness, watching me as I turn the volume over in my hands. I imagine his delight and relief in selling a few more copies of his book. His poems. His words … His life’s purpose.

I reach into my bag, find the money and pay him. ‘Thanks,’ I say, forcing a smile again.‘Thank you ... I’m sure I’ll enjoy reading this.’

I leave and, in my head, I’m kicking myself: At least I’m not dead, I reflect, that was all pretty weird and creepy but … all my money is now gone, I’ve got no copy of Grey’s Anatomy and no time to find another one ... and … quite possibly I’ll now fail my exams. Shaking my head, I consider an option might be to study in the Uni library and borrow a Reserve copy of the book. But … Darn it!

I drag my feet as I trudge back to my car. So disappointed. So stupid to have misread … misunderstood the Ad ... but who sells poetry books to Med students?!

I turn to look back at the flat and realise the blonde poet is on the porch smiling at me. He waves and I can’t help noticing the look of happiness ... and … enthusiastic encouragement on his face. I wave back and hold his poetry book in the air, nodding and smiling my thanks again.

OK, maybe some things work out for the best, I reflect. Maybe, one day I’ll read his poems and like them. Who knows. Maybe his writing will spark some enthusiasm for the Art of Language in me and one day I too will want to write something. Or … maybe it’s not about me at all. Maybe this is about him. The poet. Maybe he’s meant to keep writing – not give up yet – success lies just ahead – waiting for him - and with the sale of a few of his books, he’ll continue pursuing his goals.

In the end, I have no idea why stuff happens - but today I bought his book and I realise now that I’m pleased I did – even if only to see the lovely expression on his face. Totally worth it. I lift my head and skip ahead to my car, swinging the arm that carries my new poetry book.

Who knows - maybe there are no mistakes in the larger plans of the universe and life.

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